“As a kid, I loved going to the convenience store with my mom. Years after she died, I opened one of my own”

My parents met at university in Saigon, Vietnam, in 1973. The following year, they got married, and my older brother, Vu Tich, was born. Then, a month later, Saigon fell to the Viet Cong. My mom and dad, who were 19 and 21, watched the regime pillage my grandparents’ house and destroy the city piece by piece. In 1979, they fled as part of the mass exodus of “boat people” out of Vietnam.

After landing at an Indonesian refugee camp, they were offered asylum in Winnipeg. That’s where I was born, four years later. I don’t remember much about the city besides my mother’s stage-two sarcoma diagnosis, which she received at age 30, when I was two. She had a large fibrosarcoma in her left elbow. Doctors told her that she would receive better medical care on the West Coast, so we moved to Victoria. At that point, picking up and starting over was second nature to my parents.

We were there less than a year. My mother’s cancer became aggressive, and the medical team said we’d be better off in Toronto, so we moved again. We lived in a one-bedroom basement apartment near Dufferin and Bloor. My mother was given the gamut of cancer treatment and almost lost her arm.

I got to know the city well as a kid. My mother had to wear a sling for most of my childhood, so she couldn’t drive or pick me up. We took the bus and subway a lot. My favourite times were our weekly trips to the local convenience store. Every Friday, no matter how bad she was feeling, my mother would pick me up from school, take me to the neighbourhood convenience store and let me pick out a treat. I usually got Nerds, Ring Pops or Twix. I knew on some level that my childhood was different from other kids’, but the ritual felt sacred and special; it was something just for us.

By 1989, with my mother’s cancer in remission, we moved to Mississauga. Things were okay for a while, but the cancer returned in 1995, when I was 11. I became our family’s primary caregiver and my mom’s nurse: I cleaned her chemo chest port-a-cath, administered her pain killers, bathed and fed her. I prepared lunch for my dad and brother every day, even though my brother was nine years older than me. Like a good Vietnamese girl, I did all of this while excelling in school. How could I not? My parents had enough to worry about. I was struggling to hold everything together, but taking care of myself was never on the table.

My mom’s cancer spread to her lungs and pressed against her heart, and when I was 13, she passed away at Trillium Hospital in Mississauga. Until the end, my mom always put our needs first. She knew the day it happened that she was going to die. She told my dad to take me and my brother to the movies because she didn’t want us to watch. I don’t think she could handle the pain of a goodbye either, so she didn’t tell us it would be the last time we saw her. By the time the movie ended, she was gone.

I understood that my mom was never coming back, and it was terrible, but I was more worried about my father—a man who had struggled to get to where he was only to have his dreams of a middle-class life in Canada torn apart by my mother’s cruel disease. A typical Asian father, my dad kept going on and expected us to do the same. My brother and I were to focus on our studies and move on, so that’s what I did.

I paid my way through university by working in retail and got a degree in French linguistics and English literature from U of T. After that, I went to teacher’s college, but just as I was about to graduate, my dad got into a terrible car accident on his way to work. He broke several ribs and had internal bleeding. I dropped out of school to help him regain his strength, visiting him at the hospital and, after he was sent home, cooking, cleaning and watching movies with him—his favourite pastime. By the time he was finally better, my stamina was waning.

Growing up in a Buddhist family, we often practised meditation. I used it regularly to calm down and keep functioning, but the emotional trauma of my youth was finally rising to the surface. I couldn’t focus. I panicked every time I thought of something happening to my dad. I had no idea what to do with my life, and I could no longer push my anxious feelings down on my own. I managed some of my pain by getting tattoos, but the adrenalin was temporary, and when it was gone, everything came bubbling back.

On my 23rd birthday, I went to the Kwan Yin Meditation Centre in Los Angeles, which was affiliated with a Buddhist temple. I took a vow of silence and meditated for four hours every day. Most people tap out after a week, and I had planned on staying for two, but I lasted five months. I was fully present, and for the first time in years, I felt alive. Though my circumstances had forced me to be strong, I was living in survival mode, from one moment to the next. I don’t think I ever paused to let my fortitude sink in. It took a lengthy stay at a meditation centre to make me realize I could do anything if I set my mind to it.

When I returned to Toronto, I still didn’t know what to do next, but I had found some peace. I got a job at the men’s streetwear store Uncle Otis, working the floor and serving male customers—something I was used to. I was good at my job and worked my way up to a management role at Trilux, a menswear wholesaler.

In 2012, while I was at Trilux, Jonathan Elias, the owner of men’s retailer Lost and Found and a former client of mine at Uncle Otis, hired me as manager. Two years later, I was promoted to buying director. It was a good time in my life: I also met my partner, Klaus, and his twin boys.

But, by 2021, I’d hit a wall. Mentally, I was in a different place. I’d moved to Seaton Village with Klaus and his children, and being more settled in my domestic life made me realize I wanted a change. I didn’t want to feel like I was just surviving at a job—I had done enough surviving. More importantly, I didn’t want to work for a man; I wanted to work for myself.

In the spring of 2022, I spotted a neighbourhood storefront that was up for rent. I had management experience, an eye for design and a sense of what the community needed, so I grabbed it. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do, but I had an idea of a welcoming place that sold candy and gifts and had a coffee shop—a place that would bring joy to the neighborhood and recreate some of the magic of my mom taking me to the store for a treat. I also knew I would carry products from small women-owned businesses like Breadhead, Mati Ceramics and Santa Isla.

In November of 2022, I opened Tiny’s General Store. In addition to offering coffee and pastries, I stock locally sourced frozen items like Baldassarre pasta, Gaucho empanadas and Honey’s ice cream—things moms can feel good about giving to their kids. I also make sure to have a bunch of fun old-school candy like Popeye sticks, fruit powder and sour gumballs for kids to check out while their parents are shopping. And of course, I always stock Ring Pops, Nerds and Twix. My store has grown with the neighbourhood; the same kid who came in a few years ago to buy candy is now buying a cute glass mug for their mom. I listen to what my customers want, and I feel supported by them. It’s the kind of mutual care I didn’t have growing up but now know that I deserve. When I see someone in the neighbourhood carrying a Tiny’s tote, I smile and think about how my mom would have proudly worn one too.

It boggles my mind that it took nearly two decades to figure out what would give me the fulfilment I’d been seeking. Giving local kids a glimmer of the special feeling my mother gave me has become my greatest joy. I didn’t have much of a childhood, so reliving it as an adult is healing. Every time I see a kid walk into my store holding their mom’s hand, it unlocks wonderful memories of my mom. My shop may be tiny, but my heart is full.